


Jam Today

by Persiflager



Series: Jam [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Phone Sex, Threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-03-14
Packaged: 2018-01-15 16:41:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1311829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/pseuds/Persiflager
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade takes Sherlock up on his invitation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Kindly beta-ed by [peevee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/pseuds/peevee).

Greg managed to leave the office just after six and dashed home to have a shower. Afterwards, when he’d dried off, shaved and combed his hair, he stood nude in front of his open wardrobe and tried to decide what to wear.

Tricky. He didn’t want to seem desperate, and he’d probably be getting his kit off sharp-ish anyway so it didn’t matter what he wore. On the other hand, it was only polite to make a bit of an effort. Taking the wrapping off’s half the fun, after all.

Greg briefly contemplated his jeans before deciding that there was too high a risk they’d make him look like Jeremy Clarkson. Fuck it, he didn’t need to pretend he was younger than he was. He was going to wear a suit like always because he looked good in a suit and that was all Sherlock and John had ever seen him in anyway. And he’d picked up a pack of new black boxer briefs from M&S at lunch so that was pants sorted.

It was a shame he didn’t have more time to prepare. Greg would have liked to do a bit of research online to make sure that he could keep his end up (so to speak). Still, it couldn’t be that tricky - Hopkins was gay and he couldn’t tell his arse from his elbow. And it wasn’t like they had anything he didn’t already know how to work.

Greg glanced at his watch, swore, and got dressed in a hurry.

…

Greg arrived at 221 Baker Street at five to eight and rang the bell before he could chicken out. After a few long seconds loitering on the doorstep, he heard feet thundering down the stairs.

John opened the door. He was barefoot, wearing a dressing-gown, and his hair was damp and sticking up. “Greg! Hi, sorry, I was just getting out of the bath. Come up, Sherlock will be back any minute.”

John turned and headed inside without waiting for a response. Greg stepped inside, closed the door behind him and followed John’s arse upstairs.

It was funny, he’d only given it passing glances before now, just enough to establish that it was quite a nice arse. Now that Greg knew what it looked like without clothes getting in the way, he couldn’t take his eyes off it. Would he get to fuck it this evening? He had no idea if that was going to be an option but it was definitely one that he’d take if he got a chance.

Once they were inside the flat John gestured in the direction of an armchair. “Have a seat. I’ll be back in a minute.”

Greg sat down and let his gaze wander round the flat. It was strange. Most of the decoration – the chemistry equipment, the books, that ridiculous skull – was the same as in Sherlock’s previous flats, so much so that at first glance it would be easy to miss that John lived there, but somehow it all felt complete different. It felt like a home where people lived rather than just a place for Sherlock to sleep and store his socks.

Maybe it was the second armchair. Nothing made visitors feel unwelcome like forcing them to stand.

John re-appeared, now fully dressed. Greg wasn’t sure why he’d bothered. Maybe it was an etiquette thing – no clothes off until everyone was there.

“Sorry Sherlock’s not back yet,” said John

Greg nodded. It occurred to him that it might be a good idea to talk to John before Sherlock got home as he had a strong suspicion that talking wasn’t really going to be on Sherlock’s agenda.

Then again, what would he say? ‘So, indulge in group sex often?’, ‘Nice arse, can I fuck it?’ or ‘Congratulations on your home-made porn, I had ever such a lovely wank’?

Greg was starting to see the advantage of having Sherlock around. You could always rely on him to cut through any social awkwardness or embarrassment and get straight to the point.

“How are you?” asked Greg in the end.

“Good,” said John, looking pleased to be asked. “Had a bit of a cold last week but it’s gone now. And you?”

“Not bad. Good, actually. Healthy. Been going to the gym a lot.”

John gave him a slightly odd look. “Ok. That’s … good.”

Then again, John wasn’t usually backward about coming forward himself.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“Did you know I was coming round tonight?”

John frowned. “How would I know you had a case?”

Greg sighed. Of _fucking_ course. “No, not for a case. Look, I’d better go.”

“Are you sure? Sherlock will-”

“Bugger Sherlock,” said Greg with feeling. Well, he certainly wasn’t going to. “I’m off.” He put his beer down and walked out.

…

By the time Greg got home he’d worked himself up into an epically foul mood, a tropical storm of anger and self-pity.

He wasn’t sure who he blamed more:

Sherlock, for making a fool out of him once again, only this time without even the consolation of solving a case.

John, for witnessing his humiliation. No doubt he’d be all sympathetic next time they saw each other, and Greg would want to punch the pity out of his eyes.

Or himself for believing it. What a _fucking_ idiot he was. Good-looking blokes don’t go around recruiting their supposedly straight friends for threesomes and he should know better than to trust anything that seems too good to be true.

Well, obviously it was Sherlock.

It didn’t help his mood that he was starving, having grabbed a sandwich from M&S rather than going to the canteen at lunch. Greg decided to order a Chinese and pick up some beers from the corner-shop while he was waiting.

His phone buzzed eleven times with new text messages and he ignored every single one.

…

Greg had just finished his second beer when the doorbell rang. He sighed, put his bottle down among the empty take-away cartons and went to open the door.

Sherlock and John stood side by side. Sherlock looked annoyed, John looked annoyed, embarrassed and apologetic.

“What.”

“Traffic accident on Edgware Road,” said Sherlock.

“What?”

“I was in a taxi, which was delayed, by a traffic accident.” He scowled. “I should have been home well in time to explain.”

“And he tried to text me but my phone battery was dead,” added John, apologetically. “Which isn’t to say that this isn’t all his fault because it completely is.”

“Oh please, if we’d waited for you to talk to him then it would never have happened.”

“That is not-”

“John,” said Greg. “What are you talking about?”

John licked his lips, looked at Sherlock, looked back at Greg. “I gave you the wrong impression earlier,” he said, pinking slightly. “While I didn’t know Sherlock had actually approached you and suggested tonight, we had definitely talked about … it, and I was keen. Very keen.”

Greg looked at John’s earnest expression, then at Sherlock’s impression of the world’s most unfairly maligned man.

“Alright, you can come in.”

They both moved forward and Greg held up a hand. “Just John, for now.”

…

John followed Greg inside and stood awkwardly in the hall.

“Want a drink?” said Greg, heading towards the kitchen.

“Oh yes.”

Greg opened a beer and passed it to John before grabbing another one for himself. “Cheers.”

John nodded and downed half the can in one. “Bloody hell.”

“He’s your boyfriend,” said Greg, leaning back against the counter.

“Don’t remind me.” John perched himself on the edge of the kitchen table, looking a little bit more relaxed.

“You two are ok, though, right?”

John nodded, and a worry that Greg hadn’t even noticed before melted away. “It’s the best relationship I’ve ever been in. I might still kill him one day.”

“At least the sex is good.”

John gave Greg a quizzical look.

“I’ve seen it, haven’t I? And, by the way, in case I forget, congratulations.”

John’s jaw dropped. “You’ve seen our video.”

“Yes? Of course, I have, that’s why … Sherlock didn’t mention that bit, then.”

“No,” said John smiling a tight smile and shaking his head. “No he did not.” His cheeks had gone a lovely shade of pink.

Greg tapped his foot on the tiled floor. “I liked it,” he said eventually, as casually as he could manage.

“Did you now.” John looked at him steadily, just a hint of a smile playing round his lips.

There was a creaking sound from behind them. Greg turned around just in time to see Sherlock open the kitchen door and waltz inside.

“That was locked.”

Sherlock pulled a face before twirling the suspicious-looking tool in his hands and dropping it back into one of his capacious coat pockets. “I see you two are moving along at a glacial pace.”

“I can’t _believe_ you showed him our video,” said John, glaring. “That was private - you _promised_. You know I’d have never agreed to do it otherwise.”

Sherlock shrugged. “It had the desired result.” He looked at where Greg was standing and gave him a knowing look. “ _So_ sorry. Did I interrupt?”

“It would serve you right if Greg and I went off and shagged by ourselves tonight.”

Greg cleared his throat. “Um …”

“It might, but you wouldn’t.” Sherlock crossed the room and headed for the stairs.

“Where do you think you’re going?” asked Greg.

“To entertain myself while the two of you engage in foreplay. I’ll be in the bedroom.”

They both stared as his back disappeared up the stairs.

“I should probably be more concerned about what he’s going to do up there,” said Greg thoughtfully.

“Are you?”

“Not really.”

By unspoken agreement they gravitated towards the lounge and sat down on the sofa next to each other.

“So,” said Greg, picking the most immediate of the questions in his mind. “No foreplay?”

John grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck. “Not as such, no. Sherlock’s more into extended … um, play. As it were.”

Greg tried to picture that. And kept on picturing it. “Right.”

John glanced at him. “That does it for you, does it?”

“Come over here and find out for yourself,” said Greg almost without thinking. His flirting skills were so rusty he was worried they’d snap if he tried anything complicated.

John’s eyes crinkled at the corners with amusement. He leaned in a little closer, making Greg’s pulse race, then paused and held up a finger.

“Hold on a minute.”

Greg‘s temporary confidence deflated.

“No,” said John with a quick squeeze of Greg’s knee. “It’ll just take a second, I promise.” With that he climbed off the sofa and quickly climbed the stairs.

“Sherlock?” Greg heard him say. There was no audible response.

“Just to double-check, do you mind if I kiss Greg?”

“Why would I mind? That’s the whole point of being here.”

“We just talked about having sex, we didn’t cover kissing.”

“Lestrade’s not a prostitute.” Which might be the nicest thing Greg had ever heard Sherlock say about him.

“How the hell have you seen ‘Pretty Woman’ but not any Bond films?”

“What’s ‘Pretty Woman’?”

“… Never mind. I’m going to go snog Greg.”

“Good. Oh, ask him how he feels about penetrative sex while you’re there.”

John shot back down the stairs. “I take it you heard that,” he said, landing heavily on the sofa.

“I’m not a prostitute.”

John grinned and scooted over. “I’m allowed to kiss you.”

“Get on with it then.” Greg wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans. John’s face was just inches away, his eyes bright and knowing, but Greg couldn’t bring himself to move.

John smiled, then closed his eyes and moved closer. Greg closed his eyes too, automatically, and felt John’s lips press softly against his own. Oh, that was nice. He kissed back, opening his mouth a little, moving on instinct. John leaned in closer, spread one hand wide on Greg’s thigh for support, and slid his tongue into Greg’s mouth.

That was _fantastic_. Greg kissed him back, enjoying the heat and the closeness, and felt his cock twitch. Bloody hell, he was snogging John Watson. John was snogging him, more like, and Sherlock was letting them. Sherlock, John’s boyfriend, who was upstairs waiting for them to fuck. He was about to have sex with John and Sherlock.

Suddenly it was all too weird. Greg pulled away.

“Alright?” asked John.

“Yeah, just a bit ...,” said Greg, trailing off as he watched John lick his lips. “Um.”

“Ok.” John nodded understandingly. His hand was still on Greg’s thigh.

Fuck that, Greg wasn’t going to screw up this opportunity. He gathered his courage and kissed John firmly, working one hand up under his t-shirt and against the warm, smooth skin of John’s stomach.

“Are you two done yet?” came a bored drawl from above him.

Greg sighed and removed his hand.

“This is too weird for me,” he said, hating himself with every word. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Ok,” said John again. “Maybe another time?”

Greg blinked.

“You know, we actually just came over here tonight to explain,” continued John. “I didn’t think you’d be up for it right now.”

“It was possible,” said Sherlock as he descended the stairs, “but not the most probable outcome. Still, I trust John’s convinced you of our sincerity?”

Greg looked at John’s mouth - red, and a little bit wet. He swallowed. “Yeah. He has.”

“Ok then,” said John, standing up. “We’d better be off. See you soon, Greg.”

“Very soon,” added Sherlock with a sly smile curving up the corner of his lips.

They let themselves out before Greg managed to get up off the sofa.

…

Greg tried to put it from his mind. He watched the telly, had another beer, made himself do the washing up and went to bed at a reasonable time with the intention of getting a good night’s sleep for a change.

Not a chance.

He lay there in the dark, wide awake and staring at the ceiling. He still didn’t have a _clue_ what they were both playing at. If it had just been Sherlock then Greg would have had no hesitation in dismissing their proposition as a wind-up but it didn’t seem the sort of thing John would joke about. Besides, _John_ had kissed _him_.

The thought occurred to Greg that ‘nicer than Sherlock’ and ‘more trustworthy than Sherlock’ weren’t exactly glowing recommendations. That was one of the (many) problems about knowing Sherlock - just by existing, by being the odd person he was, he changed the way you thought about other people. He stretched the scales out. Maybe John wasn’t even actually short.

Greg thought about that for a moment and concluded that no, John was definitely a short-arse.

So, on the one hand, there was the risk of humiliation and potential career suicide if it ever got out. On the other hand, he might be passing up the fuck of his life.

His phone buzzed on the bedside table.

_How do you feel about phone sex? SH_

Greg dialled before he could think about it.

“I’m not telling you what I’m wearing,” he said as soon as Sherlock picked up.

“Not what I had in mind. Would you like to listen to us have sex?”

“Sorry, what?”

Greg could practically hear Sherlock roll his eyes. “John and I are going to have sex and we’d like you to listen while we do. Think of it as a warm-up activity.”

“Your dirty talk’s _rubbish_.”

“You wouldn’t know. Yet. Are you interested?”

Greg thought about it for a moment, felt the twitch his cock gave. “Yeah. Hang on, let me talk to John first.”

Sherlock sighed. “Fine,” he said, sounding put-upon and slightly echoey. “There, I’ve put it on speaker-phone.”

“Hi Greg,” said John cheerfully, as if it was perfectly normal for them to both lie in bed talking on the phone. “It’s alright if you’re not up for it, honestly.”

Greg swallowed. It sounded more real coming from John, somehow. “No, I am. Definitely. Are you?”

John laughed and it was the dirtiest laugh Greg had ever heard, reaching straight between his legs and giving his bollocks a good squeeze. “Yeah, just a bit. Are you hard?”

“Just a bit.”

“Good,” said Sherlock, his voice suddenly loud - he must have moved closer. “Take your underwear off, we’ll call you back when the boring bit’s done.” Sherlock hung up, and Greg was left half-hard and not sure whether to pity John or envy him.

Plenty of time to decide later. Right now his cock was wide awake and insistent. Greg pushed back the covers, pulled his t-shirt over his heard and pushed his boxer shorts down, throwing them all onto the floor to sort out later. He stretched out, spreading his legs wide, and cupped himself. Groaned. Fuck, that was lovely. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken the time to do this slowly.

A thought struck Greg. He fished the bottle of lube out and put it down on his bedside table next to the box of tissues. Probably wouldn’t need it but never hurt to be prepared. He stroked his hands over himself, nipples and stomach and balls, a nice leisurely fondle that gave him goosebumps. His skin prickled with a warm anticipation. He gave himself a little stroke then pulled his hands away, wanting to make this last as long as possible.

He wondered what Sherlock and John were doing right now and how long he’d have to wait. A minute or two to get their kit off then maybe a bit of snogging and groping. Not long, anyway - Sherlock had sounded impatient.

Sherlock would get straight down to business, definitely. He’d stroke both their cocks with those clever hands of his, getting them both nice and hard. John would be the one wanting to take his time. He’d want to touch Sherlock all over and - oh yeah, he’d definitely want to look. They’d have the light on, show-offs. Getting off on watching themselves get off.

Greg left the light off. He didn’t want to see himself - he wanted to be able to picture the other two.

His phone buzzed again.

“Hello?”

“Lestrade,” came Sherlock’s voice. “Are you naked?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Stark. Put us on speakerphone so that you have both your hands free.”

Greg did so, putting the phone down on the pillow next to his head. “There.”

“Good.”

There was a faint noise in the background that Greg couldn’t identify. “What are you doing?”

“Talking to you.”

Greg rolled his eyes. “Smart arse. What’s John doing?”

“Sucking me off.”

Oh Christ. “Shouldn’t be allowed,” said Greg, dry-mouthed, wrapping one hand round his cock. “Words like that, posh boy like you. Tell me about it.”

Sherlock’s laugh rumbled filthily in his ear. “Oh Lestrade, you’re going to be so much fun.”

A faint voice at the back of Greg’s brain pointed out that ‘fun’ and ‘trouble’ were synonymous as far as Sherlock was concerned. Greg didn’t care. He was pretty sure that he’d been in trouble since he pressed play on that DVD - might as well enjoy it.

“Go on.”

“I’m sitting up against the headboard,” said Sherlock, a little breathlessly. “John’s kneeling between my thighs and he’s - _ah_ got my cock halfway down his throat.”

“Jesus.” Greg fisted his cock, letting his arousal build. “Is he alright?”

“Hear for yourself.” Sherlock’s voice faded away to be replaced by wet, obscene sounds and muffled moans. If that was John, he sounded ecstatic.

“See?” said Sherlock, evidently bringing the phone back up to his mouth. “He’s enjoying himself.”

“He’s not the only one.” Greg stopped stroking himself for a moment to pump some lube onto his palm. He smeared it up and down his length before fisting his cock again, imagining that John’s mouth was on him, groaning in pleasure at the slick warm slide.

“So I hear.” Sherlock sounded pleased. “Putting you on speaker.”

Greg stopped.

“Why have you stopped?” Sherlock’s voice was fainter but still audibly aggrieved.

“Um…” He couldn’t explain why. And now he’d stopped, he felt too self-conscious to start again.

There was a faint, wet ‘pop’. “I can’t really hear that well from here, anyway,” said John. “Look, you talk to him now and I’ll have my turn in a minute. Greg, is that alright with you?”

“Yeah.”

There was an audible sigh. “Fine,” said Sherlock, his voice loud again in Greg’s ear. “Will you touch yourself again now?”

Greg wrapped his fingers round his cock and slid them wetly up and down in answer. He continued without talking for a couple of minutes, listening to Sherlock’s breathing and the indistinct, quietly filthy noises that John was making.

“Lovely,” said Sherlock eventually.

Greg realised with a thrill of embarrassment that Sherlock was using his sounds to build a mental picture. “Talk to me,” he said firmly, resisting the urge to beg. “Describe what you’re doing.”

“Hm. Alright. We’re in my bedroom. I’m sitting up against the headboard and John is lying between my legs on his stomach. I’ve left the light on so I can watch him.”

Greg sat up and re-arranged himself so that he was sitting up in the same position as Sherlock. “Go on.”

“He’s very dedicated - can do this for ages. Of course, that’s mostly because it turns him on. He’s hard, I can tell - keeps squirming against the mattress.”

Greg closed his eyes to picture it. “Is he good?”

“Glorious,” said Sherlock, a slight quaver in his voice taking the edge off his smugness. “Unimaginable. Have you ever been sucked off by a man?”

A noise came unbidden from Greg’s throat. “No,” he managed to say out loud, his hand speeding up, shamefully aware that Sherlock would be able to hear his unvoiced desires.

“Let John. He wants to, you’ll love it.”

Greg couldn’t tell if it was the thought of being with a man, or it being John, or just the thought of a truly enthusiastic blowjob, but he was suddenly teetering on the brink of orgasm.

“You mustn’t come,” panted Sherlock, attempting to sound authoritative. “Not yet. Got to - _uh_ \- wait for John.”

Reluctantly, Greg slowed the speed of his strokes. He heard Sherlock moan, desperate. “Oh fuck, are you coming?” asked Greg, arousal thick in his throat.

“Nearly, I - yes, _yes!_ ” Sherlock gave a long groan and Greg had to take his hand off his cock entirely to resist the temptation to finish himself off.

There were some quiet shuffling sounds and the wet noise of kissing. Greg stared at the dark, far end of his bedroom and clenched his hands in the fitted sheet, trying to calm down.

“Greg?”

“John,” said Greg with a sigh of relief. “Thank god. Talk to me.”

“Christ, I’m so hard it hurts. Are you?”

Greg laughed, slightly hysterically. “Just a bit. My balls are _aching_. Tell me what you’re doing.”

“Just re-arranging, hang on a - oh _fuck_ , yes.”

Greg gripped his cock loosely. “What?”

“Do you ever finger yourself?”

Greg’s cock twitched, unbidden, in his hand. “No. Are you-”

“You should. Makes orgasms more intense. Sherlock’s got two fingers in me right now.”

“Fuck,” breathed Greg, picturing it. “Really?” With a unconvincing casualness he slid one wet finger back and stroked behind his balls, exploring the general area. _Oh_ , that felt … interesting. More than interesting. He rubbed the pad of his finger over his arsehole, breath catching at the sensation, and felt a shameful thrill run through him.

John grunted quietly, low in his throat. “Three.” His voice was shaky. “Ah, Sherlock, _fuck_.”

Greg spread his legs wider to get better access. Rubbed faster. “Keep talking.”

“Oh god. He’s - I’m not touching my cock. He’s going to make me come just from this.”

“Can he?”

“Yeah, his hands are amazing. Doesn’t often, though - must be showing off for you.”

A huff of laughter escaped Greg’s lips.

“I would, you know,” said John, his voice low. “Suck you off. I bet you’ve got a lovely cock.”

Greg let his head fall back against the headboard and fisted his cock in tight, lush pulls. It didn’t take much to picture John sprawled between his legs, fair head bobbing enthusiastically up and down, warm hands fondling Greg‘s balls.“Would you now.”

“Fuck yes. Any time you - _uh_ \- want. _Please_.”

The urgency in his voice tipped Greg over the edge. “ _Yes_ ,” he hissed, squeezing his cock tight as his orgasm thumped through him, scorching his nerve endings. “Oh fuck, I’m _coming_.” He arched up, thigh muscles aching, as he came warm and wet over his clenched fist with a pleasure so sharp he _sobbed_.

“Oh, _Christ_ that was good.” He sat still, catching his breath and letting the last sweet tremors subside.

“Keep talking,” begged John, his breathing harsh and loud in Greg’s ear. “Come on, tell me what you were thinking of when you came. I’m so close.”

“Your mouth,” breathed Greg, too relaxed to be embarrassed. “Fucking it.” He paused. “Sorry, is that too-”

“No, _fuck_ , keep going.”

“Coming all over your face.”

John grunted sharply. “There, that’s it, that’s _it_.” He gave a long, low groan that faded away to quiet panting.

Greg lay in the dark, hand and stomach still sticky with come, and felt shame prowling around the edges of his subconsciousness.

There was a rustle as the phone moved.“Well, I think that was quite satisfactory,” said Sherlock, evidently not even slightly embarrassed. “Goodnight.” He hung up and Greg was left contemplating the fact that he’d just had a sexual experience with a man. Two men. Phone sex with two men, and they were John Watson and _Sherlock bloody Holmes_.

And he’d loved it.

 

Shame fucked off to god knows where and Greg slept _incredibly_ well.


	2. Chapter 2

Greg slept straight through his alarm the next morning, eventually yawning himself awake around half-past nine.

He blinked at the clock. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept in so late on a Saturday. His head was clear, his body didn’t ache, and he just generally felt … _good_. Strange. He stretched indulgently and yawned a bit more before clambering out of bed and going in search of tea.

As he watched the kettle boil, Greg contemplated the previous night in a vague, fuzzy sort of way. He’d had sex (well, sort of sex) with another person (people) for the first time in … months? It couldn’t be over a year, could it? Bloody hell, it was. Anyway, he’d been well past due to get his end away. Should have done it ages ago. Would have done, if he’d known it would be that much fun.

Whistling, Greg made himself tea and set about his day.

…

The unprecedented amount of sleep had left Greg with a _phenomenal_ amount of energy. Almost before he’d realised it, he’d done his laundry, hoovered the flat, cleared his paperwork and finally moved the oven clock onto British Summer Time. He was sorting out a pile of clothes to take to the dry-cleaners when his phone rang.

“John!” said Greg as he answered. “How’s it going?” Catching sight of himself in the mirror, he realised that he was smiling like a twat and running one hand through his hair. He tucked his free hand in his back pocket but left the smile in place.

“Good,” said John, “very good. Sherlock’s had an idea for a new test for gunpowder residue.” There was a muffled bang and a faint ‘fuck!’. “Ah well, maybe not. How about you?”

“Is he alright?” Greg couldn’t help asking.

“Oh, fine. Didn’t need his eyebrows anyway.”

“Are you just watching and laughing?”

“Yes,” said John, sounding satisfied. “Just like a certain wanker watched and laughed while I cleared up the mess he’d made of the fridge yesterday. Anyway, how’s your day going?”

“Not bad, just pottering around.” It was tricky, trying to convey the message ‘I do have a life of my own, you know’ while also implying ‘please tell you’re naked, I will drop my trousers in a heartbeat if you called me for phone sex’.

“I enjoyed last night, by the way.”

“Yeah?” That was more like it. Greg sat down on the bed. “Me too. Want to do it again?”

“Actually, we were wondering if you’d like to come round tonight.”

_Oh_. “Um…” Greg poked at the pile of laundry on his bed while trying to make up his mind.

“Not for anything you don’t want,” John added hastily. “We thought - _I_ thought - you might be up for watching us.”

That sounded much less terrifying. Also hot. “Yeah,” said Greg. “I am.”

“And, you know, if you fancy anything else then we can just … see how we go.”

“Fair enough.”

“The offer still stands, by the way.”

The - oh right. John had offered him a blowjob. Begged for it, in fact, Greg’s cock reminded him with a twitch. That, he could possibly be on board with. “Right,” he said, voice low. “That’s … yeah, might be up for that.”

“Fantastic,” said John warmly. “No, not you. Sorry Greg. Come round at eight? We’ll get a take-away.”

“Ok.”

“Great! See you then.”

“Looking forward to it.”

John hung up and Greg caught sight of his reflection in the mirror again. That was the face of a man who was on a promise. He stood up, winked, shoved his phone back into his pocket and strolled out of the room whistling.

…

Greg got to Baker Street at ten minutes past eight because the bastard Bakerloo line was playing up again.

“Hello Inspector!” said Mrs Hudson when she answered the door. “Just go on up, you know the way. Have you got a new case?”

Greg stepped inside and closed the front door after him. “Just a social call tonight, Mrs Hudson.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” she said, scrunching her face up. “Boys night in, is it?” She nodded at the bottles of beer he was carrying in a plastic bag.

“Something like that,” he said, trying to simultaneously come across as the respectable professional that he was and get away as quickly as possible.

“Well, have fun.” She leaned in confidingly. “At least I know they won’t get into too much trouble with you to keep an eye on them.”

Greg smiled politely and escaped up the stairs.

…

“Evening,” said Greg, pushing open the flat’s front door. “Hope you’re-” Something flew past his face and thudded into the doorframe. He turned slowly to see a large kitchen knife sticking out of the wood, still quivering. “What the _fuck_?”

Sherlock strode across from the far side of the room, dressing gown swirling about him. He bent, looked at the knife and tutted. “Two inches too low. Damn.”

Greg gaped at him.

“Let’s try the next size up,” said Sherlock without looking up as he yanked the knife out.

“Did you just throw a knife at me?” managed Greg at last.

“Obviously not,” said Sherlock as he strode to the kitchen. “Otherwise it would have been too far to the _right_. John, Lestrade’s here. Have you seen the carving knife?”

Greg shut the door behind him and followed Sherlock. John was standing at the kitchen table pulling take-away cartons out of a plastic bag.

“Greg, hi!” John’s face lit up with evident pleasure. “I hope you don’t mind, we were starving so we ordered for you.”

Greg couldn’t help himself smiling back. “No, that’s alright. Here.”

“Thanks,” said John, taking the beers and putting them in the fridge. “Sherlock said you’d have the massaman curry.”

Greg blinked. “Spot on.” That was unusually thoughtful of Sherlock. He looked round to thank him and caught sight of Sherlock rooting around in one of the kitchen drawers. “Oi, what’s up with the knives?”

“Oh, you know,” said Sherlock distractedly. “Like to keep one’s hand in.” He picked out a wicked looking blade and held it up to the light.

“Yeah, but-” Greg was distracted by a rich, spicy aroma that made his mouth water.

“Would you mind helping me with these?” said John, opening a second carton.

Greg really should have objected more to being managed so obviously but under the circumstances he was inclined to let that one pass. “Ok.”

“Sherlock, can you find us some clean glasses?” said John as Greg started opening cartons and scooping food out onto the plates.

“Make Lestrade do it.”

“He’s our guest.”

“So?”

After giving Sherlock a Look which Sherlock blithely ignored, John smiled tightly at Greg. “Sorry about him.”

“Don’t be. It’s quite reassuring, actually.”

“What, Sherlock being rude?”

“Yeah.”

John smiled again, more genuinely this time, and bumped shoulders with Greg. “I’m glad you came round tonight,” he said, his voice low.

Greg swallowed. “Yeah, me too.” He glanced up guiltily to find Sherlock watching them with a pleased expression.

“Oh, don’t stop now, you were doing so well!”

Greg cleared his throat and stepped away. “So, glasses?”

…

Dinner was surprisingly normal. John’s foot occasionally brushed against Greg’s and Sherlock made a bit of production out of licking curry sauce off his fork, but Greg wasn’t sure how much of that was deliberate and how much was him looking for it.

“So what’s the plan?” he asked the moment their plates were clean.

John finished his drink before turning to look at Sherlock. “Go on, then. What do you have in mind?”

Sherlock smiled a crooked smile and kissed John. It looked like a soft, sweet kiss, nothing too dirty but intimate enough that Greg’s pulse raced from watching. “Living room,” he said before standing up and walking away.

John looked a little flushed and Greg wondered if it was from arousal or embarrassment. Or both. “Well, you heard the man.”

They followed to find Sherlock sitting in the middle of the sofa. He glanced up at them and gestured to the spaces either side of him. Greg squeezed in. It was cosy, being trapped between the cool leather of the arm and the warmth of Sherlock’s leg, but not unpleasant.

Sherlock turned to Greg and rested one hand lightly on his thigh, just high enough to be interesting. “Just watch, for now,” he said. “Though if you feel inclined to touch I should let you know that it would not be unwelcome.”

Greg blinked at Sherlock’s matter-of-fact tone. “Alright.” He couldn’t help his gaze flicking up and down Sherlock’s body as the possibilities flashed through his mind of what it would be like to put his hands there. His skin felt warm.

Sherlock smiled, slow and knowing. “Good.” He turned his attention back round to John and kissed him thoroughly - not a trace of shyness there.

Greg twisted around so that he could see better.

This was _nothing_ like watching that video. Greg could feel the sofa cushions shift as they moved with each other. He could hear the tiny smacking noises of their lips and the faint breaths and sighs. And right there in front of him was the nape of Sherlock’s neck.

He stared, weirdly fascinated, at the little curls of dark hair at the edge of Sherlock’s hairline, and the band of pale skin between them and the collar, and the one tiny dark brown mole. What a funny thing. There’d been nothing to stop him looking in all the years they’d known each other - nothing rude about a nape - but you just … _don’t_. You spend so much time trying to ignore the reality of other people’s bodies - the sounds, the smells, the little imperfections and vulnerabilities - because once you notice them you can’t stop. They become a person like you - warm and breakable.

Now he knew that Sherlock had a mole, which meant that he was human. Greg felt a rush of affection for it and for the man underneath. On an impulse he reached forward and pressed his palm briefly to the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“Suck me,” said Sherlock, nibbling John’s ear.

“I’m always sucking you.” Even Greg would tell that John’s protest was half-hearted at best - his voice had gone low and husky.

“Yes, which we both enjoy.”

“You could suck me off for a change.”

Greg didn’t see exactly what Sherlock did with his hand but it made John gasp. “I _could_ ,” he mused, “but I think Lestrade would enjoy watching you.”

John opened his eyes and craned his neck round to look at Greg. “Any preference?”

Greg swallowed. Looked at John’s lips. “Um.”

“Right then”. John nodded briskly, shuffled back on the sofa and pulled his jumper over his head while Sherlock started undoing his own clothes. Within a couple of minutes John was standing up in just his t-shirt and pants while Sherlock had got his shirt off and his trousers opened.

Greg felt a bit awkward being the only one fully dressed so he pulled his shirt over his head, leaving him in his vest and trousers. No one seemed to mind.

Sherlock lifted his hips and pushed his trousers and pants down in one go. John kicked them out of the way and knelt between Sherlock’s legs, pushing them wider apart to give himself room.

Sherlock’s naked thigh pressed up against Greg, as did his naked hip and arm. He was entirely naked. And right _there_ , sprawled boldly out without a trace of self-consciousness. Greg’s mouth went dry as he stared, taking in all the details: the tiny pink nipples, the smooth pale chest, the dark, coarse thicket of pubic hair. Sherlock’s stiff cock, flushed dark against the pale skin of John’s hand.

He looked back up to find Sherlock smiling approvingly at him - not an expression he’d seen often before. Before he could think what to say, Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him.

Oddly enough, for all that he’d been thinking about what Sherlock would be like in bed over the past couple of days, it hadn’t occurred to him to wonder what kissing him would be like. He certainly wouldn’t have guessed that Sherlock would be like this - soft and languorous, with just a hint of tongue.

Sherlock made a soft noise low in his throat. Greg pulled back to see that John had taken Sherlock’s cock in his mouth and was slowly, methodically sucking him.

“Bloody hell,” whispered Greg, squirming in his seat, unbearably hard.

Sherlock popped the button on Greg’s trousers and yanked the zip down before Greg could react. “There,” he said with satisfaction. “You should be more comfortable now.”

Greg wasn’t sure ‘comfortable’ was the right word. He was very close to having his cock out in front of Sherlock; that couldn’t possibly be safe. Still, it was hard to think about that when he was watching a cock slide between John’s lips.

Fuck thinking, he was having a hard job remembering to _breathe_.

“As I said,” said Sherlock, leaning back against the back of the sofa and folding his arms under his head. “Touching would not be unwelcome.”

Well then. Before he could over-think it, and without taking his eyes off John’s flushed, relaxed face, Greg put his hand on Sherlock’s thigh. It was nice - warm, firm, hairy. He could feel the muscles quivering.

Sherlock hummed, a low rumble of satisfaction, and closed his eyes.

“That looks nice,” said Greg, watching John. He looked like a man who enjoyed sucking cock and took pride in his work. He’d got both hands involved, one to stroke Sherlock’s cock in tandem with his mouth and the other to fondle and squeeze Sherlock’s balls, and was making shameless, wet little moans.

“More than _nice_ ,” chided Sherlock, only a faint breathiness betraying his arousal. “Kittens are _nice_. Tea is _nice_. John’s mouth is frankly obscene.”

The tips of John’s ears had gone red. He looked up and made eye contact with Greg before slowly swallowing Sherlock’s cock until his nose was buried in Sherlock’s pubes. Then he _winked_.

“Fucking _hell_ ,” whispered Greg, squeezing Sherlock’s thigh to remind himself that this was real.

Sherlock snorted. “Show-off. I can do that as well, you know. It’s not - _ah_ \- hard.”

John rolled his eyes before slowly coming back up and getting back to work.

They both had their eyes closed now - one concentrating on giving a blowjob, one on receiving it. Greg slowly, cautiously slipped his left hand into his pants. Oh, _fuck_ he was so hard. Hard and wet, leaking like a bloody tap. He thumbed his foreskin, biting back a whimper, and then took the plunge and pulled his erection out.

“Good,” murmured Sherlock, sounding almost drugged.

Greg curled his hand protectively round his cock.

“I won’t look if you don’t want me to,” continued Sherlock. “That’s - oh, John, just like that. _Yes_.”

Sherlock grabbed Greg’s hand and dragged it up his body, practically purring with happiness as he used it to caress his stomach and chest.

“Right,” said Greg, dry-mouthed, as his captive hand was taken on a tour of Sherlock’s torso. “So, that’s yours now, is it?”

“You can have it back in a minute,” panted Sherlock, writhing about like a cat in heat, rubbing Greg’s palm over one nipple and then the other. “Don’t bother trying to pretend that you mind.”

Greg really didn’t. He was dimly aware that he ought to find Sherlock’s presumption irritating but the truth was that he quite liked being used like this. It made him feel useful, needed, desired in some way. Uncurling his fist, he started to stroke himself in small, furtive movements.

Sherlock pulled Greg’s hand up to his mouth and sucked two fingers into his mouth.

The sudden warm wetness nearly made him come right there and then. “Fuck,” he groaned, taking his hand off his cock before he spoiled things by coming early. It throbbed, begging for attention, in the warm air.

Sherlock ignored him and fellated his fingers messily, sucking in time with John’s increasingly rapid tempo. Desperate whines spilled out of his mouth until finally he bucked up off the sofa and came with an undignified strangled noise.

After a moment of quiet panting, John pulled off and wiped his hand across the back of his mouth. “Thanks,” he said drily. His grimace was belied by the soft, soppy look in his eyes as he looked up at Sherlock.

Sherlock let Greg’s fingers fall from his mouth before stretching his hand out and wiping a smear of come off John’s cheek with his thumb. “You’re welcome.”

John looked up at him for a moment longer before turning his attention to Greg. “How are you doing?”

“Alright.” Greg wiped his wet fingers on his vest. He was acutely aware of his cock bobbing in front of him. He was also aware of the massive tent in John’s pants, and that awareness brought with it the uncomfortable realisation that he had the smallest cock in the room. It wasn’t something he’d ever really worried about before - nothing wrong with being average as long as you got the job done - but he’d never been a situation before where someone was going to be able to make an immediate comparison.

“Can I suck you?”

Then again, maybe John would be grateful for a smaller mouthful. “You don’t have-”

“I want to.” John gave him a lopsided smile. “Besides, I’m already down here.”

“Yeah.” Greg swallowed. “Yeah, ok.”

John shuffled around, giving Greg a moment to contemplate the clothing issue. His cock was already out, so technically he was exposed enough to get the job done, but it seemed a little rude to keep his clothes on. Impersonal.

Making up his mind, he tucked his cock back in before shimmying out of his pants and trousers in one move and kicking them off to the side. He held his breath for a moment in case John disapproved.

John did _not_. Kneeling between Greg’s legs with a look of concentration, he put one hand on each ankle and ran them all the way up to the top of Greg’s thighs so that the hairs stood on end.

“Nice,” he said without looking up, stroking his thumbs along the creases at the top of Greg’s thighs.

“Thanks.” Greg was embarrassed to see that his cock had wilted a bit.

John noticed. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, giving Greg’s thigh a reassuring squeeze. “Let’s just see how we get on.” He ducked his head and licked a warm, wet stripe up from the base of Greg’s cock to the tip. It twitched in response. “Yep,” said John with satisfaction. “That’s going to work.” And with that he sank down further onto his haunches and took Greg into his mouth.

Greg had to look away. It wasn’t just that it was a massive turn-on, watching his cock slide between John’s lips - it was that he was so fucking grateful, it was embarrassing. He wasn’t sure he could bear for either of them to know.

“That’s lovely,” he said eventually, conscious of the need for feedback. It was - slow and lush and wet, he could feel his cock throbbing against John’s tongue. Arousal was building in his pelvis like a fire gradually catching light, all sparks and crackling heat.

John hummed happily and the vibrations made Greg groan. “Oh. Alright, more than lovely. You’re a fucking genius, you are.”

Right on cue, Sherlock stirred beside him. “It’s fellatio,” he muttered sleepily. “Doesn’t exactly require much brainpower.”

“Maybe not the way _you_ do it…,” said Greg automatically before processing what he’d just said.

Sherlock snorted. “If you’re trying to appeal to my competitive instinct, your timing’s off.” He sounded relaxed and happy - not states that normally went together with Sherlock. Greg found this further demonstration of Sherlock’s humanity comforting.

“Ssh,” said Greg. John’s breath was hot against his balls, making him spread his legs like a needy, begging thing. “I’m enjoying myself.”

“So I can see.”

Greg tried his best to forget that it was Sherlock’s boyfriend he was enjoying. “If you’re not going to join in, be quiet.”

Against all the odds, Sherlock shut up.

Greg took a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to make himself last. John had been bobbing his head very nicely for ages now without a word of complaint about aching jaw or knees, and Greg could easily come from that alone if John kept it up. But now John was bringing his free hand into play - rolling Greg’s balls gently in his palm, stroking back and under, even running his fingers over the uneasily arousing area of Greg’s arsehole.

Greg could feel his orgasm start to coalesce, tingling in his balls and his belly and the tops of his thighs.

A wet tongue licked his ear.

“What the-”

“I’m joining in,” rumbled Sherlock, so close that it felt like he was inside Greg’s skull. “Sit still.”

“Oh god.” Greg closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the sofa cushions as Sherlock mounted a mouthy assault on his ear.

He didn’t even _like_ that, normally. But now it was just … wet and intimate and filthily hot, both of them having their mouths on him. He was going to come any second and then it’d be over. He squeezed his eyes tighter shut and tried to think of horrible things.

“Put your hand in his hair,” commanded Sherlock, sucking his way down Greg’s neck. “But don’t push.”

Greg whimpered. He blindly reached out and groped in the air above his crotch until he encountered the tufty-haired back of John’s head. He petted it, tangled his fingers in it, stroked his fingertips over the short, stubbly hairs at the nape.

His orgasm swelled up gloriously within him, poised on the brink. Then Sherlock mouthed his jaw and John gave one hard suck and Greg came. He came with an undignified shout, bucking his hips up in an automatic thrust as pleasure punched up through him, so sharp and strong that for a moment he thought he’d gone blind.

“Oh, fuck me,” he muttered as his muscles went lax.

“Really?”

Greg’s eyes flew open. “Um, no. Sorry.” He smiled at John. “But thanks. That was fantastic.”

“You’re welcome.” John grinned at him then stood up and pushed his pants down.

Greg stared at John’s thick red cock and wondered if he should offer to help but Sherlock beat him to it. “Come on, then,” he said, rolling away from Greg and sitting up.

John clambered onto the sofa, straddling Sherlock’s lap. His knee pressed tightly against Greg’s thigh. “Oh yes, please,” he breathed, bracing himself on the back of the sofa as Sherlock took him in hand with quick efficient strokes.

He obviously wasn’t going to take long. Greg couldn’t think of anything else to do so he put one hand on John’s bare bum and squeezed.

“ _Ah_ ,” gasped John. “Yeah, that’s nice. Ah, there, _fuck!_ ”

He collapsed forward onto Sherlock’s chest. After a moment or two, Greg removed his hand.

“I thought that went rather well,” said Sherlock.

Greg turned to find them both looking at him for the first time since they’d started. It was disconcerting. They only had a t-shirt on between the three of them and his cock was soft and sticky.

“Yeah,” he said, a little huskily. “Bit of an understatement, that.”

John beamed at him.

…

Sherlock dashed off to get in the shower first which left Greg and John to get dressed in semi-awkward silence.

“So.” John ran a hand through his hair and laughed.

“Yeah,” said Greg, zipping his fly shut. “I enjoyed that.”

“So did I.”

They both looked at each other.

“I’m just going to get some water, then I’ll head off,” said Greg.

“You’re welcome to stay here tonight if you want,” offered John. “I made up the bed upstairs, just in case.”

Greg considered it. That could be quite nice - just staggering upstairs and falling asleep. Plus he’d have company in the morning.

“Thanks, but I think I’d better get home,” he said reluctantly. Not that he objected to anything that had happened over the past few days but he tended to feel swept along in their wake when he was at Baker Street. He could do with some time alone to recover.

“Ok.” John didn’t seem offended. Had he only offered to be polite?

John followed Greg into the kitchen and started tidying up.

“You ever do anything like that before?” asked Greg.

John paused, Tupperware in hand. “Once. With a girl I knew and one of her friends.” He glanced at Greg’s raised eyebrows. “Wasn’t quite as good as it sounds - we were all a bit too drunk. And then we had a row after.”

“Ah.”

“Tonight was better.”

Greg nodded and drank his water. He still felt pleasantly buzzy and content but was dimly aware that there were a lot of different thoughts and feelings milling around the back of his head.

They could wait until tomorrow.

He’d just finished when Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, flushed pink and wrapped in a tartan dressing gown. He wafted through the kitchen, touching Lestrade lightly on the shoulder as he passed, and bent down to press a kiss to the top of John’s head.

“Shower’s free.”

John looked at Greg. “Do you want to hop in?”

Greg shook his head. “Ta.” He went to find his coat and shoes.

When he was fully dressed and ready to go, he found Sherlock standing in the living room watching him with that discomfiting stare of his.

“What?”

“John wasn’t asking to be polite.”

Good to know. “Ok.” Greg patted his pockets, found keys, wallet and Oyster card all still in place. “Right then. I’ll see you when I see you, then.”

Greg waved to John and let himself out.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning Greg woke up still thinking about the situation.

“Hm,” he said to the ceiling.

It was weird. Good, though; so unexpectedly good that he was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He let it simmer away in the back of his mind all day while he pottered around doing chores, and at three o’clock he caved in and called John.

“Greg! How are you?”

“Hi John. I’m alright, ta. Listen, I wanted to ask-”

There was a scuffling sound. “Ah, Lestrade,” said Sherlock.

“I was talking to John.”

“Yes, and now you’re talking to me.”

Greg frowned. “Put John back on.”

“No.”

“Sherlock-”

There was a sigh. Greg heard the sound of footsteps, presumably as Sherlock changed rooms. “You’re calling to ascertain our expectations of this arrangement.”

“Yes.”

“The fact that you think John is better at talking about these matters than I am is yet another sad indictment of your observational skills.”

“Right.” Greg felt frazzled. He sat down on the sofa and ran his hand through his hair.

“There’s no need to get in a tizzy,” said Sherlock impatiently. “This is a mutually beneficial arrangement. What we want is perfectly compatible with what you want.”

“And you know what that is, do you?”

“Of course.”

Greg glared at the smug plastic phone in his hand before turning round and flopping onto his back. “Go on then.”

“Firstly, sex.”

“Yes, I managed that one myself.”

“Secondly, companionship. You’re lonely. We enjoy your company. Well, John does.”

Greg stared at the curtains. “Cheers.”

“Thirdly,” continued Sherlock as if Greg hadn’t spoken. “A clearly defined arrangement with minimal commitment which is unlikely to result in emotional distress.”

“Is this you promising not to break my heart?”

Sherlock made a rude noise.

Greg contemplated what Sherlock had said, his fingers itching to toy with a telephone cord that wasn’t there. He tucked his hand under his leg instead. “When you say ‘minimal commitment’-”

“Oh, condoms and that sort of thing. Dull. Talk about it with John.”

“Right.” Greg could feel his cheeks heat up at the implications. He pushed that aside for the moment. “Has it occurred to you that I might be looking for something more than being your third wheel?”

“Eventually but not yet. You’re still getting over your divorce. Your insecurities about your penis alone-”

“Yes, thank you,” said Greg hastily. “Look, I’d better go.”

Sherlock yawned. “Suit yourself,” he said before hanging up.

Greg pulled a face and got up. The annoying thing as that Sherlock was right. Between his own marriage and the train-wrecks he saw every day, the thought of trusting someone new terrified Greg.

At least he knew where he stood with Sherlock and John - two steps behind with his arse bared to the wind.

He could work with that.

…

Greg texted John the next day suggesting a post-work pint and was pleasantly surprised to see that it was actually him that turned up.

“Greg!” John waved from the bar where he had two pints set in front of him.

Greg waved back and went to grab an empty table. John joined him moments later.

“How was work?” asked John once they’d each taken that all-important first sip.

“Shit. You?”

John shrugged. “Sherlock was out all day so I wrote up that agricultural college case. I was thinking of calling it ‘The Adventure of the Tree Students’. What do you think?”

Greg shook his head with well-practised sincerity. “You’re the writer, mate.”

“Hm.” John fiddled with his beer mat. “So, I hear you had a nice chat with Sherlock yesterday.”

Greg grinned. “Is that what he called it?”

“Funnily enough, no. He said you wanted to ask me about something?”

“Ah.” Greg grimaced, took a big swig of beer and tried to resist the urge to look round. The pub was full of people busy with their own conversations - no need to be paranoid. “Yeah. He mentioned condoms?”

John nodded in a very professional manner. “Yes. We don’t use them but I wanted to check if you’d been tested.”

Greg stared at him. “I was married for ten years. There hasn’t been anyone since.” Which he’d assumed Sherlock would already know.

“Yes, but your wife … um, she slept with someone else, right? So if you slept with her after that, then theoretically … and that’s assuming there weren’t any others.” John grimaced sympathetically.

Greg was aware that his mouth was hanging open. “… Right. That hadn’t occurred to me, to be honest.”

“So, if you don’t want to then that’s fine, we’ll just use condoms,” said John briskly. “If you do then I can tell you where the nearest clinic is. It’s painless. And, to be honest, it’s something you should probably do for yourself at some point anyway.”

“Great.” Of all the things Greg had thought might be on the agenda for the evening, a health talk had been right down the bottom. He was trying to take it with good grace, as John obviously meant well, but it was something of a disappointment.

A thought occurred to him. “Hang on. Shouldn’t we have used them the other night, then? When you…”

John smiled awkwardly. “Um. Technically yes, but that’s pretty low risk.” He cleared his throat. “The thing is, we’d quite like to have the option … that is, if you were interested-”

“You want me to fuck you,” suggested Greg, cheering up immensely.

John scrunched up his face before smiling at Greg. “That’s … pretty much it, yes.”

“Both of you?”

“Both, either…” John shrugged. “I’m easy.”

Greg grinned broadly. “Oh, you _tart_.”

John raised his eyebrows and gave Greg his most intimidating look. On any normal day, that’d work.

He sighed. “You’re thinking about it right now, aren’t you?”

Greg shifted in his seat. “Aren’t _you_?”

John held his gaze for a moment before clearing his throat. “Right. So, let’s talk about rugby until we can stand up without embarrassing ourselves.”

…

They had a couple more pints before heading back to their separate homes at a civilised hour. Greg picked up fish and chips on the way home.

As he sat in front of the TV licking his salty, greasy fingers, he wondered what would have happened if he’d suggested going home with John. Was he allowed to do that? It seemed wrong to start anything without Sherlock there.

Somewhere along the line, he’d forgotten how to ask for things. It felt wrong. He was used to being grateful for what he got, and asking for anything else was-

Oh for fuck’s sake, he wasn’t drunk enough to be this maudlin. He pulled out his phone and called Sherlock.

“You’re drunk,” said Sherlock without preamble.

“Only a bit. What would have happened if I’d asked John if I could come home with him tonight?”

Sherlock hummed. “He would have texted me to see what I thought. I would have said that I wasn’t interested because I was in the middle of an experiment but that he was welcome to bring you home if he liked. He would have asked exactly what I meant by that, I would have repeated myself, and I expect at some point in the ensuing conversation you would have felt awkward and said goodbye.”

“Huh.” Greg fished a small chip out of the corner of the packet and crunched it. “That’s very precise.”

“Isn’t it.”

Greg grinned. “So, just to check, neither of you would have minded if I’d suggested-”

“Of course not.”

“Good to know.” Greg licked the salt off his fingers.

“Your ex-wife was an idiot,” said Sherlock. “Goodnight.”

“Night,” said Greg, but Sherlock had already hung up. He smiled at the phone anyway and went to bed.

…

The next day Greg skipped the gym in favour of making a visit to a local sexual health clinic. The tests themselves were fine compare to the mortifying experience of discussing his sexual history.

It wasn’t until he was walking home afterwards that Greg realised he had effectively just come out to someone for the first time.

“Huh,” he said, and carried on walking.

…

On Friday afternoon Greg was sitting at his desk doggedly ploughing through the paperwork when his phone buzzed.

 _Thank fuck for that_ he thought, opening the message with alacrity. _I could do with a …_

Greg stared at the picture of Sherlock’s naked body for a full five seconds before his mouth snapped shut. He glanced round guiltily to check that no-one was hovering outside the door before turning his attention back to the photo.

It looked like Sherlock had held the phone up under his chin to take the photo, with the camera aimed down his body. It was _definitely_ posed to good effect. The light reflected off the muscles of Sherlock’s chest and stomach in a way that made Greg wish he’d gone to the gym at lunchtime. Sherlock was holding his erection in one hand as if he’d snapped the picture mid-wank - wait, no. Either Sherlock’s cock had grown or that was John’s hand wrapped round it.

His phone buzzed again. Greg did another quick peripheral check to make sure that he wasn’t about to be disturbed before opening it.

 _Well_. That was John’s bum alright. Lovely little trail of fair hair down his crack. And definitely Sherlock’s large hand spreading his cheeks.

His phone buzzed again, and again. Greg dismissed all thoughts of a cheeky wank in the loo and grabbed his coat.

…

Between London traffic and his impatient, nagging arousal, it was the longest taxi journey of Greg’s life. It might have been easier if he’d been able to ignore the stream of new messages but frankly that was beyond him. The closer he got to Baker Street the less posed the pictures seemed - Sherlock and John were obviously in bed _right now_ , snapping photos and sending them straight to him. Greg groaned and dug his fingernails into his thigh in an effort to maintain some self-control.

Thankfully they’d left the front door on the latch. He let himself in and conscientiously locked it behind him before bounding up the stairs two at a time to find the front door ajar.

There wasn’t anyone in the living room. Greg hung his coat up, took his shoes off and walked quietly up to Sherlock’s bedroom door.

“Let me see,” came John’s voice. Greg paused. “You can’t send him _that_!”

“Why not?” said Sherlock. “It aroused me. Look.”

“I’m looking.”

“Looking doesn’t normally require the use of your hands.”

“I’m looking _thoroughly_.” They both laughed, low and happy, and Greg wondered if he should turn around and go. Then his phone buzzed in his pocket.

The laughter stopped. “Oh, Lestrade. Eavesdropping?” Sherlock tsked. “Naughty.”

Greg opened the door and strode in. “I thought I was invited.”

Sherlock and John were both sitting up at the head of the bed, stark naked and visibly hard. Greg swallowed.

“Hello,” said John with a little wave. “Took your time.”

“You’re over-dressed,” said Sherlock.

“I’ll catch up.” Greg shrugged off his jacket and let it fall to the floor before taking his phone out of his trouser pocket. “Two secs.” He opened the latest picture, curious to see what could possible be too dirty for John.

And stared.

Looked up, raised an eyebrow at a red-faced John, then looked back down, rubbing his hand over his mouth.

The picture was a close-up view of John’s arse, covering an area not much larger than Greg’s hand, and showed two of Sherlock’s glistening wet fingers buried up to the second knuckle in John’s pink, stretched arsehole.

“Show me,” he demanded, rough-voiced.

“Clothes off first,” said John.

Sherlock and John watched silently, side-by-side, as he unbuttoned his cuffs, pulled his shirt and vest over his head, yanked his socks off and finally shoved down his trousers and pants, cock springing out like a jack-in-the-box.

There was a click.

“Sherlock,” said Greg warningly.

“Private collection,” said Sherlock, lowering his phone.

Greg decided to let that go. “Go on then,” he said, standing by the edge of the bed, pulse thundering in his ears. “Show me.”

Still flushed pink, John shuffled down the bed and rolled over so that he was on his hands and knees in front of Greg, facing away with his head hanging down.

Putting one knee on the edge of the mattress to brace himself, Greg cupped his hands over the warm curve of John’s buttocks and exhaled softly. He stroked his thumbs lightly along John’s cleft. John shivered and dropped to his elbows, exposing himself further.

The mattress springs squeaked as Sherlock moved around. “Here,” he said, waving a bottle of lube.

“Thanks.” Greg took the bottle and coated the fingers of his right hand before setting it carefully aside. He put his sticky-palmed left hand back on John’s arse and slowly, reverentially traced the delicate flesh of John’s crack with his slick fingers.

There were more camera clicks. Greg ignored them. Daring, he pushed the tip of his index finger against John’s crinkled hole and watched as it slid easily inside.

John made a soft noise. Greg moved his fingers slowly in and out, marvelling at the heat and smoothness. He felt dizzy.

Of course, that might be because all the blood in his body had rushed to his cock. It was like steel. He felt like he could break down doors with it.

“By the way,” said Sherlock, now crouching at the end of the bed, “you might like to know that your test results were negative.”

His … right. “Remind me to be pissed off about that later,” said Greg. He withdrew his finger reluctantly. “So. How are we going to do this?”

Sherlock gestured with his free hand. John crawled back up the bed and turned over.

“Hi,” he said, looking up at Greg. John had possibly the dirtiest smile Greg had ever seen - it wasn’t a twinkle in his eyes, it was fireworks.

Greg climbed fully onto the bed and lay down beside him, pressing up against his body and wrapping one arm round his waist. “Hi.”

John kissed him, warm and wet and eager, before wriggling round so he was facing the far side of the room. He ground back against Greg. “I’ve been thinking about this since Monday.”

“Me too.” Greg folded his trapped arm under his head and used his free hand to grope John thoroughly, revelling in his newfound freedom to touch. Soft balls, hard cock, hairy stomach, smooth chest - all of it excited him.

“As have I,” came Sherlock’s voice from behind him. Greg stilled. The mattress dipped as Sherlock climbed onto the bed before moulding himself against Greg’s back so that Greg was sandwiched between them. Sherlock reached round and took hold of Greg’s cock with one wet hand and gave him a quick, efficient stroke. “There.”

Taking the hint, Greg took a deep breath and pressed his now slick cock against John’s tiny arsehole. There was a moment when he thought it wasn’t going to go but John pushed back and oh fuck, he was _in_.

Half his cock slipped in with one thrust, and John quickly arched his back and took the rest. “Ah, fuck, that’s lovely.”

Greg nodded in agreement. John was so tight - surely that had to hurt? So tight and hot that Greg was going to be in trouble as soon as he moved.

“Do you want to know what it feels like?” murmured Sherlock in his ear, cock pressed against Greg’s arse.

Greg was going to say no, it’s too much, he _can’t_ until Sherlock ran one finger up the inside of his thigh.

“Oh,” said Greg, heart in mouth. “Yeah. Alright. John, do you need me to move at all?”

“Um, no, not just yet.” John rocked his hips a little, then again, until he had a nice slow undulation going, bouncing gently on Greg’s cock. “ _Ah_ , oh that’s good. You feel so fucking good.”

A bubble of happiness formed in Greg’s chest at John’s words - _he’d_ done that, _he’d_ given that pleasure. With each moan John gave the bubble expanded, floating up through his chest and head until he thought he was going to explode. Greg kissed the back of John’s head with affection, trying to share his delight.

Sherlock’s finger nudged between his cheeks and slowly wandered up to rub over his hole. Greg’s breath caught. He found himself torn between the impulse to push back onto Sherlock’s finger and the urge to thrust forward into John. Muscles trembling, he held still and tried to relax.

“You’re remarkably hirsute,” said Sherlock, pushing his finger in with tiny, teasing strokes.

“What?”

“He means you’ve got a hairy arse,” said John. “Fuck me.”

“Right.” Greg snapped his hips forward, listening intently to the sounds that John made, then did it again. “Um, sorry?”

“No, it’s rather nice,” said Sherlock musingly. “Masculine. Tickles my bollocks.”

“What are you saying?” panted John. “Are you saying I’ve got a girly arse?”

Greg didn’t hear Sherlock’s reply because at that moment Sherlock’s finger did _something_ and rockets went off behind Greg’s eyelids.

“Oh good.” Sherlock sounded pleased. “You _are_ sensitive.”

“Ngh,” said Greg as Sherlock did it again. “ _Jesus_. Oh fuck, I’ve got to come.” His hips were thrusting almost of their own volition now, fucking breathy little whimpers out of John.

“Don’t you dare.” Sherlock withdrew his finger and shifted so that his cock nudged up against Greg’s arse.

Greg tensed. “Sorry mate,” he said, feeling horribly guilty, “I’m not-”

“Not that.” Sherlock pushed a handful of lube in between Greg’s thighs and smeared it up and down until he was wet and slippery. “Cross your ankles and squeeze your thighs tightly together.”

Greg did his best to comply. It was a strange feeling. Sherlock’s cock was hot and pressed up against his perineum and balls. Not unpleasant as such, just odd.

Sherlock made a contented noise and started to thrust, gripping Greg’s hip tightly for leverage. His movements were forceful enough to push Greg forward into John so Greg stopped trying to set a rhythm and let himself rock between the two of them, damp with sweat.

“You can, another time,” he panted.

“I - _hng_ \- look forward to it,” said Sherlock, his breath hot against Greg’s neck. “Are you enjoying fucking John?”

Greg choked out a laugh. ‘Enjoying’ wasn’t a strong enough word for what was probably the nearest he’d come to a religious experience. “Course I am.”

“You’ll like fucking me.”

“Yeah. Expect I will.”

Sherlock grabbed Greg’s hand, dragging it off John’s hip and round onto John’s cock. “Touch him.”

“Oh, yes, please,” said John, taking his own hand off.

Greg hadn’t a clue what he was doing but at this angle it was almost like wanking so he went with instinct, wrapping his fingers round John’s girth and tugging frantically.

“Tighter,” grunted John. “Faster. That’s it, that’s it, _ah!_ ” He tightened around Greg’s cock as he spilled warm and wet over Greg’s hand, and Greg finally tipped over the edge.

“Fuck!” he yelled, shoving himself hard into John as his orgasm exploded through his lower body, seeming to take forever. He could feel his knees shaking and his toes curling. “Oh fuck,” he whispered as it faded.

Sherlock was still thrusting behind him, muttering swear words into Greg’s ear. Greg squeezed his legs as tightly together as he could manage.

“ _Ah_ , yes,” sighed Sherlock. “Good. You’re going to make me come.” He tightened his grip on Greg’s hip, fingernails digging sharply into the skin, and moved faster and faster in the hot, humid space between Greg’s thighs until he came with a quiet grunt, his teeth grazing the back of Greg’s neck.

For a moment the room was silent save for their heaving breaths.

“Eurgh,” said Greg. “I’m all covered in come.”

Sherlock’s contented hum buzzed against his shoulder.

John stretched with a satisfied groan, arching his back so that Greg’s cock slipped out, come and all. He then sat up, grabbed some tissues, and quickly and efficiently tidied himself up.

“Do you need a hand?” asked John with a yawn as he sat on the edge of the bed. “You’re going to be disgusting in a minute.”

“Mm, no,” said Sherlock, shuffling even closer and wrapping his arms around Greg.

“Is this … are we cuddling?”

“Ssh.”

“Oh. Alright then.” Greg closed his eyes and drifted off.

…

Some time later, Greg felt himself being gently shaken awake.

“Nnrgh,” he protested, refusing to open his eyes. It was lovely and warm in the bed, with Sherlock’s limbs wrapped round him like a friendly octopus.

“If you stay asleep now you’ll be up at four in the morning,” said John cheerfully. “Plus I’ll have eaten all the prawn crackers.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” mumbled Sherlock into the crook of Greg’s neck.

“Try me. Have you seen my phone?”

Reluctantly, Greg cracked his eyes open to see John, clean and dressed, rooting through the discarded clothes on the floor.

“Um,” said Greg, suddenly very conscious of their position. He tried to pull away slightly but Sherlock just grunted and tightened his hold.

“Ah, there it is.” John straightened up, phone in hand. “Greg, get in the shower. Sherlock, I’m pinching your wallet.” And with that he strode out of the room.

Greg yawned. The motion made him uncomfortably aware of the various horrible patches of dried come and lube. “Has he always been that bossy?”

“You have no idea.”

Greg eventually managed to peel himself off Sherlock and stumble to the bathroom. By the time he got out of the shower he was wide awake and his stomach was growling. As he dried himself off, he found a crescent of faint red half-moon marks on his right hip from where Sherlock had clutched at him as he came.

Greg ran his thumb thoughtfully over the damp skin, replaying the memory - the throaty sounds Sherlock had made, the smell of sweat, the warm solidity of John in his arms.

As far as he could tell, his immediate future was going to involve being bossed around in bed as well as out of it, a complete lack of personal space, eating more take-aways than was good for him, being dragged away from work at a moment’s notice and frequent, inventive, energetic shags with the two maddest men he knew.

“Jammy sod,” he said to the mirror.

His reflection grinned back at him. Greg wrapped the towel around his waist and strode out of the bathroom to find his pants.


End file.
